Our Roots

  I’ve lived through many seasons. Watched ice stretch farther than it does now. Heard the birds return earlier each year. Felt the soil change beneath my roots — drier, looser, thinner in memory than it once was. Some call it global warming. Others call it climate change. A few call it nonsense. But I do not deal in opinions. Only observations. The air holds more heat now. The storms are louder. The summers linger. And the insects — well, some have vanished entirely, while others roam farther north than they ever dared before. I do not know if all of this is your doing. I do not know if all of it is reversible. But I do know this: The oceans are rising. The forests are thinning. The sky’s breath is changing. And the changes are happening faster than they ever did in the centuries before you came. Whether myth or mistake, there is something amiss. You may not be able to fix everything. But perhaps you are not here to fix. Perhaps you are here to tend. Tend the l...

The saplings insisted I get an Instagram account. I was content enough whispering on the wind and storing my thoughts in the rings beneath my bark, but apparently that’s “low engagement.” So, you can now find me here: 👉 instagram.com/rowanoakelder I do not promise “content.” I promise quiet observation. Occasional leaf photos. Perhaps a cryptic caption or two. If I’m feeling brave, I may even post a memory — maybe of what I observed at the Roanoke Colony…

Some humans count anniversaries with jewelry. But did you know, trees do the same? Long before your clocks ticked or calendars flipped, we trees kept time in rings. Each year, a new circle etched into our core—some wide with abundance, others narrow from drought or hardship. They are journals, written in silence, of every season we’ve stood through.   As the growing season begins, cells near our outer bark rapidly divide, forming light-colored wood called earlywood—spongy, wide, and full of water. When summer fades and growth slows, we shift to building latewood: darker, denser, and stronger. That contrast marks the end of one year and the beginning of the next. Once the cycle ends and the cold sets in, the ring is sealed. Growth pauses, and we rest… until the sun calls again. Some of you carve initials in bark, claiming a tree as witness to your love. But we already remember. We don’t forget a single storm, nor a single spring.

 Today, I am excited to announce the soft opening of our trails. This is but the first rustle of wind through fresh leaves. We have prepared some goods — tools for travelers, garments for wanderers, tokens for those who listen. They bear the mark of Rowan-Oak, not for show, but as a whisper: you are not alone out here. Enter the Trail I remember a time when ships arrived quietly on distant shores, long before they understood the land or its keepers. Some came with conquest, others with curiosity. Let us be the latter. More voices will soon join mine — Aspen, Cottonwood, Palm, and others you’ve yet to meet. Each with a story. Each with a purpose. For now, it is enough that you are here, and that you have heard us.